Riverland
by Kitty-Buu
Summary: Riverland is the first person account of Orochimaru's life. From an unstable childhood in the village of Mura no Kawa to his obsession with the mercurial Sasuke Uchiha, Orochimaru engages in an existential struggle where ethics is the price of knowledge, and anguish begets power.
1. Prologue

"_I am haunted by waters_" - Norman Maclean

"Cursed."

Wind knocked on the glass, _ratatatat_. Vigil candles flickered, casting shadows up the walls. Through it all—the storm, the wind, the night—Grandmother had lain motionless. She was motionless now, hands splayed across the bedclothes, a waning slip of consciousness. Only her eyes remained clear, and these she fixed on me. They were golden eyes, unusually intent, like lanterns in the dark. They magnified the words she hissed, and these words were hoarse and vicious and certain. 

"Cursed!" she spat again. "That's what you are. That's what you were born to be. The Serpent knew, the Serpent began it. He put the idea inside Kemui's head, and Kemui did the rest. Would that I'd had power to stop him—would that I'd tried! How small a price this life, if only to prevent yours!" 

I clasped the sides of my head, willing down the anger. Let it cool, let it die. It wouldn't do to be furious now, to ask for reasons, to demand she take it back and finish dying. I was standing at her bedside, too frightened to run, too frightened to call for help. Help...who could help now? The doctors were gone, the nurses retired. It was the pair of us together, alone, unhappy, the ideal atmosphere for Grandmother's death—the ideal time to tell me everything. And tell me she did: my origins, my birth, the truth about my Mother and the man called Kemui. The reason for my father's madness, and why the entire village of _Mura no Kawa_ had to burn. In measured, wicked bursts Grandmother narrated. With each new revelation my terror grew, and I thought,_ I must get away_. 

But where to? It had crossed my mind, during this exchange, that Konoha was but one point on a map of infinite points, any of which might offer salvation. Escape, in short, was not impossible, and yet the more I considered it, the more I absorbed Grandmother's words, the greater my despair, and deeper the certainty that _there was no place in this world for one like me_. I could travel the country, the land, the entire earth, and my identity would remain. My past I could not escape, and my past was in the story, embodied in so many words. The words and story...inseparable entities, they were. They closed in upon me, drowning my hope, defining the future with stark, unhappy lines. No, there was no place for me to run. No place but here, in Konoha, standing at the death bed of my last relative, receiving her knowledge and suffocating beneath it. Ah, but it would end soon.

Grandmother watched me in silence. Through the dark, she looked like a snake skin, shriveled and pale. The lids above her eyes were bloated from illness, the irises slits of waning light. Standing so close, I noticed how faint her markings were. The purple shadow, the Serpent's Stain—our heritage. She had it, but so much less vividly than I. Even her irises were pale, like summer wheat. Dim, unremarkable eyes.

_Nothing like my eyes_, I thought. Nothing like the eyes of Mother and Kemui. How clear and perfect their features appeared in my mind. Long bodies, alabaster skin, black hair. Elegant and beautiful they seemed, through the haze of memory. Their eyes had been as yellow as mine, the color above their eyelids the same vibrant lavender which crossed my skin, an intricate weaving of tiny punctured vessels, all mottled and woven and strange. It had been a topic of much praise for my Mother. 'How lovely your eyes are, Orochimaru' she would say; 'how like Kemui's—Kemui, don't you think? Isn't he beautiful?'

And Kemui, who had known all along, would laugh and agree with her. He would take my chin in his hand, lifting my face to the light. 'Snake eyes,' he'd remark, winking at me as if it were some private joke . 'Very beautiful. Orochimaru, you're a son of _Mura no Kawa_. The river birthed you. The Serpent gave you life. One day, you'll repay him, and you'll be a leader. One day you'll shape the world.'

"You should have killed him, Grandmother" I said aloud. My voice was startling...how calm it sounded in my ears. "You should have killed us both. So why didn't you? You had plenty of chances...you could have done it the night I was born...so why did you go along with Kemui's plan? Why didn't you stop him?"  
"I had no choice!" Grandmother raised herself up, breathing heavily. I moved to step back, but she grabbed my shirt, drawing me forward. "You don't know the trouble I went through to try and change his mind. But it was for Hebiki that I stayed quiet. For Hebiki and her own happiness. Hebiki would never have forgiven me for taking you away, and she never would have forgiven me for turning out Kemui. But I always knew how it would end. What pain this world might have been spared if I'd tossed him in the river when he was a boy. I should have done the same with you. But Kemui...Kemui wouldn't let me. He'd never have let me do it!"

I clutched Grandmother's hand, twisting away. I couldn't listen anymore. Glancing towards the window, I had a sudden impulse to jump. We were two stories up—a jump this high might kill me. And if it did? Would death take all this away? The memories, the story, Grandmother's horrible confessions. Would death relieve me of their burden? Or would I be bound to the earth, with only thoughts for company. Thoughts like _It isn't true Grandmother _and_ Could we ever have been happy Grandmother, you and I_?_  
_

_There is no happiness, Orochimaru. Only desire. _

Kemui's voice bubbled up to my ears, and with it, a tiring revisit to our final night together—the night Kemui pulled us through the dark, _Mura no Kawa_ burning behind us. How had we made it, I wondered in hindsight. We'd been so quiet, so careful, yet every movement felt like a scream in the dark. How frightened I'd been as we waded to the river's edge, sneaking between rushes and cattails. That boat of reeds floating on the silent water, Kemui pushing us into it, all vivid in my mind. Grandmother's hands had been so tight as she held me close, and the boat rocked below us like a cradle. I'd sick...so sick...Kemui stooping in the mud and clasping the prow with one white hand. He was taking us into the current. He was forcing us away. And as he pushed, his words came soft and concise, implying salvation, which had made me hate him more than ever. 

"Go to Konoha," he'd told us. "Go to Konoha, and start over again. There's nothing for it—it's the only place for you...the Village Hidden in the Leaves. Retreat there, and the better times will come. Start over, begin fresh. Can such things be? Are there such things as new beginnings? You'll have to find out for me."  
_Yes, Kemui. We'll find out, I suppose.  
_ I put a hand to my lips, ready to vomit. The memory was nauseating me; the rocking boat, Grandmother's heartbeat in my ears, water slapping at the prow. Kemui's breathing...  
_Kemui...it was your fault we had to leave. Your fault that we couldn't save Mother, that the village burned. Where are you now, Kemui? Dead or alive? Alive, I hope. Alive and slowly dying...you ruined everything. You ruined our lives. And one day...one day...  
_

A screen door rattled below, startling me back to the present. Someone was coming upstairs. It was Sarutobi Hiruzen, the man who found us and our boat, who pulled us from the river. He'd been a silhouette when we first met, a shadow amid lesser shadows. But he'd spoken calmly, and offered help. It was he who brought us to Konoha, who washed and dressed us, who gave us food and beds to sleep in. When Grandmother fell ill, it was Sarutobi who moved her to this quiet, simple room with large windows and an elevated bed. He said to me, "when she's passed on, I'll come take you somewhere important." Well, Grandmother had not 'passed on'. But she would soon. The realization left a pit in my stomach. Nausea clung heavy to me as Sarutobi crossed the balcony. Would he take me away, then? Had he come to keep his word?

Lightening burst outside, throwing the balcony into sharp contrast. Sarutobi's shadow was a fractured pattern on the screen, large and full formed. He pushed the screen aside, and with him came a rush of air and rain. I threw up a hand to shield myself, squinting through the droplets. Sarutobi stood in the doorway, drenched and stalwart. He looked at me a long time, then suddenly relaxed his brow. Intensity gave way to compassion; a sad, discrete gentleness—the sort men show in the face of tragedy. With soft steps he approached me. I did not step back. 

"Orochimaru," he said quietly. "Orochimaru, it's time to go."  
"Go?" I echoed, stiff and wet beside the bed. "Right now? But it isn't time—it isn't over! I won't leave while Grandmother's-"  
"Has he come to take you?" Grandmother tossed her head, snaring Sarutobi with her eyes. She looked cadaverous, all twisted in the sheets. "He means to take you? To make you a member of Konoha? Pa! The man's a fool if he tries. And what will you do with him, Sarutobi? What use has Konoha for a child of the river? He bears the Serpent's stain—he's a demon. His father was a madman, and his mother is dead because of it. You'll be sorry you ever lay hands on him!"  
"Orochimaru," Sarutobi kept his eyes on me. He was ignoring Grandmother—a dangerous move, I wanted to tell him. But my own voice died as he reached out and took my arm, grasping it firmly above the elbow. It was an assertive gesture. Absolute, domineering. The way Kemui used to grab me in a fit of anger. I jerked away, menacing him with my eyes. "You heard her—I'm a child of the river. You cannot-"  
"You _will _not take him away!" Grandmother thrashed between the sheets, arms flailing and bruised. Her white hair had come loose from its braid, limp and haggish about her face. "Orochimaru!" she gasped, "Orochimaru, remember what I told you, what Kemui told you! Don't you remember what he said? Don't you remember what it meant?" 

Yes, I remembered. And at that moment, when I did not wish to remember anymore, I heard the evil man's voice more clearly than ever. More clearly than the memory of the night with Grandmother in the boat, more clearly than the last words he spoke when pushing us down river. A fanatic prophecy, just a whisper across the water: _Orochimaru, Serpent's son. Child of the River. To the river you are born, to the river you die. It's waters are your blood, its movement your life. Live in its embrace, share its madness. Water is capricious as fire, as meandering as wind. Be like the water, and shape the world to your inclination. Be like water, and fire will be yours to command.  
_

"He speaks!" Grandmother screamed. She convulsed on the bed, a skewered snake. Urine rushed between her legs, staining the sheets. She moaned, blood splattering down her chin, quaking in the presence of a dead man whose voice she heard in my thoughts, and whose face she saw in mine. "Kemui, oh Kemui! The river is fire! Fire, flesh, and blood! Your child...the Serpent's coming for him! Into him the Serpent will be born! Summon the Serpent, Orochimaru! Nurse him in your body, give him life as he gave it to you! Be the water which shapes the land! Become a god!" 

"She's mad" Sarutobi snapped, pushing me back against the wall. He was calling to the nurses. Up they came, a sweep of starch and linen. They crowded around Grandmother, a circle of elm trees bending and sweeping their white arms across her body. I crouched on my knees, trying to see through their many legs, to make out Grandmother's face. But she was blocked from my eyes. Only her voice carried through. Her words had degenerated to nonsense, to frightened moans and grating shrieks. The loud, incensed ruckus of the mad and possessed. 

I clasped my hands over my ears, desperate to drown it out. Curled against the wall I drew up my knees, pressing my forehead against them, rocking and rocking. _The river...remember the river, Orochimaru_ I told myself, _not the myth, not the dark songs, but the river you knew. The river you loved, with its wild, rippling laughter. The river my home, the river my world. The river in which I swam before I walked, which flowed through me in peaceful, poetic fluxes. Its song a melody, its voice gentle as wind. Gentle like Mother's voice, like Mother's smile... _

_Remember the river, Orochimaru...the river will bring you fortune.  
_

Mother...oh Mother, come back... 

"He'll bring you ruin!" Grandmother's words broke through my reverie, jarring me from the comfort. The room had gone still. The nurses still fringed the bed, but now they looked at me, somber and pallid. Sarutobi knelt beside me, two hands on my shoulders. From his shadow I watched my Grandmother. Her death throes were over, her life flickered low. The end was here. Her eyes slipped back, she twitched once, and then she died. 

The air in my lungs rushed out, my shoulders slumping. I felt deflated and weak. But everything was finished, and everything was quiet at last. I could breathe again.

~~~

"I have a place for you," Sarutobi spoke frankly. Casually. As though the events upstairs were long forgotten, a world apart, and now we had returned to the land of the living. To Konoha, with its warm lamps and laughing children. To the land of reason and comfort and security, which was the only life Sarutobi appreciated. "You'll stay there three months, then we'll talk about your future. There's a lot to discuss." 

"Discuss," I repeated, shocked at my own indifference. We were walking through the wet roads of the village. Mud splattered my bare feet, and I was faintly aware that we'd left my sandals behind, in the room with the dead woman. "What is it? What do we need to discuss? Where is this place? Why am I going there?"  
"To answer those questions," Sarutobi side stepped a villager, clasping my wrist tighter, "you must be patient, and wait for me. About why I'm taking you there, I told you. For your future. _Mura no Kawa_ is no longer your home. You're a member of the Leaf now. You're a child of Konoha. This is your home." 

Home, I reflected. New home. Home to home, hand to hand. The litany of chaos. Is life made of such things? Such patterns? Are memories nothing but patterns themselves? Visions of home...what are they, but patterns of thought? Visions of nostalgia? Patterns of feeling. The smell of water and summer air, fisher cranes and song birds, silver fish and yellow eels...all patterns. The sunset. The river. Simplicity, routine...patterns. 

How often, I wonder, do patterns recur? Do they circle once, and then evaporate? Where does life go, when its pattern has ceased? Is it born anew, or does that pattern disintegrate, making room for another? Riverland, my home, have you left me forever? Have you subsided to the corners of my mind? Do you exist now as only a pattern of thought? A figment of my mind? Will I, one day, be only a pattern of memory? As Kemui, Mother, and Grandmother are now memories? What happens to this pattern, after death? 

Far away the storm continued to rage. The lightening flashed less frequently, the thunder murmured, but only at a distance. Konoha was safe. Sarutobi was speaking again, though I only heard the concept of his words: Night is ending. The sun will rise, a gateway into tomorrow. New days are new beginnings. 

Tomorrow..a new beginning, the death of the old. Tomorrow is coming, and I am not prepared.


	2. Part I: Chapter I

**Part One: River World**

_In that brief moment's ecstasy  
I felt so small and yet so great;  
You thrust me backwards cruelly  
To my uncertain human fate_."  
-Johan Wolfgang von Goethe, _Faust_, 623-629**  
**

_****_Chapter One

I knew he was a river dweller by his gait. The way he carried himself, and the casual white hand which held the straw hat as a shield against the sun. It was rare to see travelers at that time, and I suspect it still is. As a child, I remember those who passed through Riverland were always unwelcome, save a few, and these we knew by a variety of means—the means which clans adapt to identify one another, to bring in the known and keep out the foreign. So it was with our village Mura no Kawa. We claimed to know one another implicitly, and so it was that I knew this man as one of our own by his most subtle gestures, and did not fear him as a consequence.

I was by myself that afternoon. It was intolerably hot, the height of summer. The cattails were dry and sun bleached. Mosquitoes whined across the river, and every so often I heard wind crackling through the cotton wood, wishing it would blow the water and disturb the stagnant shallows. Safe and concealed on the river bank I let my feet soak, finding patterns in the sunlight as it danced through the trees. 

These were rare, cherished moments for me. Moments to be still and peaceful. It was a welcome serenity, warm and reassuring. Not like the dead silence of Mura no Kawa, nor the quiet of the hut where I lived with my mother and grandmother. At home, especially at night, I was plagued by a terror of silence. I would lie awake, listen to the sound of my mother's coughing, the sound of clinking glass as Grandmother mixed medicines to help her sleep. When the coughing and clinking were finished, the silence seemed impenetrable, and I thought with horror that the world had been erased, and I lay not in bed but a great pool of Nothingness, from which I might never resurface. 

Such nightmares were strictly nocturnal. The silence of the daytime was a different sort of dreadful, less acute but no less oppressive. In daylight the village was full of pensive, eerie inaction, sickly and gray, entirely out of keeping with the fragrant beauty which visited our part of the world this time of year. There was no place to experience peace in Mura no Kawa—only death. And so, with a thirst for tranquility and life, I would run past the village fence, drawn to the sounds of the wind and water, lost among the rushes with the frogs and water snakes. It was in one of these earnest moods that I'd come to the river today, and it was in this mood of serene lethargy that the man on the road came and disturbed my rest. 

His figure rippling through the heat, approaching slowly but steadily. I saw him as a dark speck against the horizon before I recognized the hat he wore, or even the pace he kept. My eyesight was poor, and I thought I should wait until he came closer before addressing him. Concealed between the cattails I lowered my head, peering through the wet sheaves at the roads' edge, where the man must pass by. He arrived sooner than inspected, with no noise or forewarning; as though he'd spirited himself along in lieu of enduring the last few meters. 

My first puzzlement was that I didn't recognize his face. Mura no Kawa was a small village, and, child that I was, I assumed those born to the Riverland never left. We who dwelt within its boundaries were the true people, the "Serpent's Children" as the old ones called us, chosen and marked with those undeniable characteristics of the spiritually selected: Pale complexions, black hair, yellow eyes, the stain beneath our eyelids varying shades of lavender. One look at a face could tell you who was family and who was foreigner, and family was never outside the village.

So I perceived this man with no small amount of alarm, noting his features, but ignorant of his identity. He was not from the village. An outsider, and yet he bore the Serpent's markings. This fact alone made me curious. As he paused before me, adjusting his hat against the sun, and for the first time I saw him fully, a figure of detail. He was tall—unusually so, for one of us. Lithe and thin, yes, black hair. The white robes he wore made a surreal picture, very

fascinating to watch. They meandered about him like clouds, close cut yet insubstantial. I found myself drawn more to the folds of the robe than his features, but I think now perhaps I misconstrued the two. It was hard to distinguish where one ended and the other began. The straw hat still shielded his face, and I could only just make out the purple shadows of his eyes.

I could have stood up and spoke to him, and he would have seen me at once. Instead I held my breath. Digging my fingers into the muddy bank, I considering my next action. Should I wait for him to move on? Would he sit down? The trees were thick along this section of river. Boulders of all shapes hedged the path, natural formations rubbed smooth by centuries of reclining bodies. I'd sat on them myself many times; it was sheer coincidence I had not done so today. I was faintly disappointed in myself, that today of all days I'd chosen the alternative. There was something wretched about hiding. I was good at it, but it wasn't a talent I admired. I knew boys from the other nearby villages. I knew of their antics, that they played games of daring, conducted tests of courage. Among them concealment was no virtue. Had it been any other boy, he would have sprang up and confronted this passerby with insolence and courage. He wouldn't slink along the river's edge, belly in the mud, watching like a spy and plotting strategies. But after all, I was not like other boys. Certainly not in strength or constitution. I was small, even for a five year old. And what physical skill I possessed seemed confined to stealth, silence, and getting out of tight spaces. Well, this was a tight space. I would have to find a way out—one without confrontation.

The man was now directly before me, which meant for the first time, I could pick out some details of his face. The straw hat was tilted back, exposing his profile; white skin, yellow eyes. The purple shadow, more vivid than I'd ever seen. My heart gave a small lurch, thoughts springing unbidden and controllable. Associations, possibilities. Was he really once of us then? Was he from the river? I couldn't see his entire face yet. If only he would turn! And if he was one of us? What then? Run out to greet him? Ask his name? The thought suddenly frightened me. From somewhere far away, I heard my Grandmother's voice, low and discrete as a whisper through the leaves: _Your people are always known, Orochimaru. You have grown with them, lived with them. We are the river, and we know those to trust. Those who are unfamiliar are dangerous, and they are many. Never trust an outsider, Orochimaru. Never offer them your words._

I was trembling. The man in white did not move. He stood motionless and pristine, one hand tipping back the hat, letting it fall. The sun hit his face directly, and then I knew undoubtedly what I suspected all along. Yes, there it was—the black slit of iris, the yellow hedged with orange. The purple smear, symmetrical and narrow, a streak down the side of the nose.

"Well?" he asked, "Are you coming out?"  
My own surprise betrayed me. I moved involuntarily, compelled by the authority of his voice. It wasn't a harsh voice; quite the contrary. He spoke with unusually fine articulation, measured and easy. A reassuring tone, for all its command. I stood awkwardly, mud sucking at my fingers. I was suddenly embarrassed to be received this way, climbing up the bank with dirty knees and hands. Had he actually been a stranger—an outsider—my appearance wouldn't matter. But here was a member of the clan, a child of the river. There were so few men left in our village—so few young men, at that. This stranger was both a man and young. Tall, healthy, and, by our aesthetic standards, quite beautiful. The shadow around his eyes was flushed in the afternoon sun. And with these eyes he now considered me, wearing an ambivalent expression that left me self-conscious and intrigued. The silence stretched between us, and I felt he was waiting for me to speak. I looked up and addressed him.  
" You're very far from the village."  
"So are you," he lifted the straw hat, replacing it. "Why did you hide when you saw me coming? Were you afraid?"  
"I didn't know you."  
"But you didn't run."  
"I knew you were one of us."  
"And still you hid?"  
"I didn't know you."  
He straightened, as though from a spinal cramp. The edge of his jaw tightened, a faint twitch shivering up to the corner of his mouth. I'd annoyed him—or at least frustrated his efforts. A minor victory, but it gave me courage, and deepened my wonder. I tried again.  
"My grandmother says the river knows its own. I don't know you. You have the Serpent's Stain. You're from the river. But I've never seen you before."  
"Indeed you haven't," his jaw relaxed, the twitch vanishing. "I've been away, traveling the land. It's been years since I saw Mura no Kawa- I'd hoped to return and find it as I remember. But you're a new face. You weren't here when I left. How old are you?"  
"Five."  
"Five? Then you're mother birthed you just as I was leaving. A strange boon. What's you're name, child?" 

At this I grew wary. The friendliness of his tone frightened me. He seemed familiar with me, not quite as an acquaintance, but as one like mind to another. He fancied himself my confidant, or an ally. He was neither to me, and I meant to tell him so. But before I could speak he shook his head, laughing. A strange, enchanting sound. For a moment I felt calm. Heat engulfed me like a shroud, and I was aware of nothing save the sweat on my neck, the haze in my brain, and the charming, reassuring sound of this odd man's amusement, as he watched me with glamorous eyes. 

"Forgive me," he drew a finger across his lips. "That was impertinent. I've upset you. You mustn't be angry. You should be happy, as I am. I've met one of my own, and I haven't seen any in so long. But it's too dry here on the road. Come sit with me on the bank, and we can speak. Perhaps then I can learn your name." 

I obeyed him. I was compelled to his voice, the way a moth is compelled to flame. My mind was deceiving me, the fog in my eyes a trick of the man, and yet I submitted to his thrall so effortlessly. It did feel good to sit back down in the shade, submerging our feet in the water. We rested our hands in on the cool moss, seated side by side, and I felt in doing so a peculiar symmetry between us. So alike we were, so ironically parallel. Same feet, long pale and hairless, same ankles, same wrists. Our shoulders and hair, these too. And as I perceived all these likenesses between us, I grew more and more enamoured. How fascinating, the ambiguous serenity of the man's face. How charming, the light in his eyes. These thoughts I wanted to make words. My questions, too: We are the same, you and I, aren't we? But why did you leave? Where were you going? Why have you come back. What is your name? 

"My name?" He answered me aloud. Reading my thoughts. Or had I spoken? "My name is Kemui. I'm a son of the river, like yourself. Your name I can guess. But I'd rather you tell me yourself."  
"Orochimaru," I whispered. It came out a sigh. Kemui's eyes lay hold of me, and I felt myself drowning. A pleasant, acute pressure gathering in my chest and belly, which I didn't understand, which I feared and welcomed. My body grew heavy; I leaned forward, bound to him. The way a slave feels bound to the sky.  
"Orochimaru..." he repeated. He looked at me a long time, thoughtfully. Then as quickly as it overtook me, the spellbroek. Kemui blinked his eyes and drew away, and I was myself again. We sat by the river, the sun setting behind us. A nightingale sang in the cotton wood, and wind shivered across the water. Kemui's feet shifted in the sediment, forcing up a cloud of earth. His ankles shone white through the debris. How elegant. I'd never seen anything so disarmingly beautiful. 

"Orochimaru," he whispered. "It's late. You fell asleep, and I couldn't bear to wake you. But you must go home now. Go home and rest."  
"Go home?" My body felt heavy, my head disorientated. As though I had, in fact, woken from a long sleep, no more refreshed than when I lay down to rest. "But where will you go? Are you returning to the village? Should I tell them you're coming?"  
"No," his feet jerked in the water, stirring more clouds. The white disappeared in a haze of brown. "No, say nothing. I'll return in awhile, but there are things I must do. We've met here, and we'll meet again. But you must say nothing. Will you promise me, Orochimaru? Will you promise to tell no one that you've seen me?"  
"I promise," I stood up, unsure and dizzy. The fog was encroaching on my mind again. I shook it away, resisting. "I promise, I promise! I won't tell a soul!"  
"Good..." the mud had settled again around Kemui's feet, and as I watched it, I felt the confusion leave my mind. I saw clearly, I felt the world about me crawl back into focus. It was very dark now. The last bit of sun was smeared behind the couds. The nightingale had flown away, its song taken up by the frogs and crickets. Where had the afternoon gone? 

I climbed the bank slowly, turning back only once, hoping, perhaps, to find Kemui behind me. But Kemui had no left his spot. He looked as though he meant to stay, one knee drawn up, head bowed forward. Posed this way, he looked like a swath of cloud, or a lantern in the dark. The ends of his robes floated on the water, stained with mud, but he didn't notice. The straw hat was gone, blown off onto the road. When I reached the bank's edge I picked up up, fingering its rim. 

"Take it," Kemui called to me. "Take it with you. It'll be our secret. Would you like that, Orochimaru?"  
"Yes." The straw felt good against my fingers. I placed it on my head, delighted by its size. I saw the world through tiny holes, a world of dying colors. Evening shrouded me, the crickets hummed, the frogs called and the air felt sweet and gentle at last. I was aware then of a peculiar happiness, the kind I'd been seeking that day, and finally discovered. To go home, just as I'd found it...what a disappointment. I wanted to remain. I wanted to sit awhile longer. I wanted to listen to Kemui, to be lost in his eyes. I wanted this night to last forever. But Kemui was a spirit now; just a whisp through the cattails. He said no more to me, and I would not disturb him. Clutching the hat over my eyes I ran along the road, back to the village. No need to see the way. No need to be afraid. I was happy. I was alive. Kemui would see me again.


End file.
